What Builds A Home
by Imperial Pigeon
Summary: It's 2014, Scotland almost seceded, a young couple are on the verge of break-up, and Aziraphale and Crowley are looking for a new home.


It was a Nice restaurant. Not expensive enough to be a fancy restaurant, but all the same the kind of place you could bring someone.

An interesting question, up there with the behavior of quarks and why people buy the food sold at sports stadiums, the sort that academics can discuss and debate and write papers about, all very happily, without ever coming to any answer, was whether it was Crowley bringing Aziraphale or Aziraphale bringing Crowley. They came on Thursdays, part of a weekly schedule that had developed in the same insidious way as tangled hosepipes and pillow dents. Aziraphale would have enjoyed marking each day a different color, if he had discovered online calenders. Crowley, who had, simply put an A by the appropriate time. Curious strangers who had managed to peak at Crowley's phone thought up all sorts of explanations for what the A stood for. It was assassinations, ace, absinthe. Crowley, who wore his sunglasses everywhere, along with fashionable black, left a certain impression.

Whether the A in fact stood for Aziraphale or for angel was anyone's guess.

Their conversation sunk into a comfortable lull. Crowley, who had been eavesdropping all evening in an absentminded sort of way, suddenly laughed. "Look, she's me." A moment of silence. "Hah! And he's you!" He nodded to a couple sitting a few tables away. They had just placed an order for drinks that matched Aziraphale and Crowley's.

"Really," Aziraphale said. But as their conversation drifted back to who was responsible for Disney, he kept an ear open to the table.

Curiosity had only narrowly escaped being the eighth deadly sin. Heaven didn't like people asking questions - the answers were all in the Bible, after all. There was a strong feeling that if people thought a little less and obeyed a little more, they would be better off, with less rivers of blood and so on. Had curiosity achieved that place, Aziraphale would have been considerably more inconvenienced. Since it hadn't, Aziraphale satisfied his curiosity without fearing an eternity in Hell.

This is what he learned.

The woman was Samantha, call me Sammy. She did computer things that Aziraphale didn't quite understand, but which sounded very impressive. He was Oliver. He had a job at the environmental agency and spent his spare time picking up litter in the parks, signing environmental petitions, and pursuing his shameful passion for violin (shameful, because he wasn't at all good.)

Oliver was short and wiry, with brown skin and dark hair that was already beginning to silver. He was especially proud of his silvering because he thought it made him look distinguished. He had a tendency to gesticulate wildly when a topic caught his interest. Samantha was taller than him, with a black fringe of hair and, surprisingly, freckles. She claimed an Irish heritage, though her accent was straight London.

They'd met during a college debate about the protection of natural resources. When things started getting heated, they'd both gotten a bit embarrassed by their side's zeal. Sammy wasn't sure it was it was right to be so enthusiastic about chopping up forests, and for that matter Olive thought his his fellow environmentalists looked a bit scary when they got going about birds. They'd sojourned to a bar, and had a pleasant discussion about cuisine (which they approved of) and fad diets (which they did not). Oliver had been too embarrassed to give her his number, so he'd written it in her notebook when she went to the bathroom. Sammy only noticed it three months later, when he confessed - which was fine, because Sammy had simply found his number on-line. Their relationship had begun like the start of a new job - nervously anticipated, but still a surprise. It had progressed from shared snacks, to lunches, to habitual dinners.

It had been going well when it came to meals. The problems started beyond the meals. Sammy's car was a problem, first of all. It was an unapologetic gas-guzzler, that Oliver declared a blight on humanity and a danger to the earth and our children. Sammy has said it was her car, and she'd be damned if she gave it up, and anyway, they didn't have children. Oliver said, you know what I mean.

Oliver's habit of making helpful suggestions while Sammy coded did not help matters, mainly because Oliver a) knew as much about computers as a dog knows about canned food production and b) hadn't quite gotten the hang of right clicking verses left clicking.

Aziraphale found more of his mind occupied by the sounds of impending domestic upset. _Poor dears_ , he thought. _They are so good for each other. There's no sense in ruining their matrimonial joy over something so silly. Helping them would be a Good Deed._

"And then I led the dark forces up through the Gates of Hell and there was a great slaughter, yea, and feasting on the bones of the blessed."

"Hm, yes," Aziraphale said. Then he looked up. " _What?_ "

Crowley grinned. "Distracted, Angel?'

Aziraphale gathered the tattered shreds of his dignity around him. "Of course not. I was just thinking."

"About?'

Aziraphale grimaced, remembering why he'd called Crowley out for lunch. He'd been conscientiously avoiding the subject for the whole meal, but now they were on their second round of drinks. "This." He brandished the newspaper like someone else's used handkerchief.

Crowley skimmed it. "Oh, right. Scotland. That was a close thing, there." His eyes narrowed. "And just how much did you have to do with it, hm?"

Aziraphale puffed up. "Scotland voted sensibly, and in its own best interests," he said. "Which they would have seen with or without my help. Of course, Edinburgh was a leading voice for unity."

"Glasgow went for independence, though," Crowley said. "Nearly swung it." They eyed each other. Aziraphale had Edinburgh and Crowley had Glasgow. It didn't mean anything, until little conflicts like this came up, and your cities went different ways (the right way, each would hasten to say) and even though you were on opposite sides, and knew it, and spent most of the time dividing up the world into us and them, it still could come as a shock to pull and realize you were pulling away.

Heaven was obliged to frown upon any sort of revolt against the establishment, unless, of course, the establishment was vastly corrupt. But very few were, by Heaven's laborious and bureaucratic definition. The oppression and exploitation of native peoples didn't count, for example. That was just expected, really, and quite probably doing them a favor in the long run. Historically, Hell was for independence and revolt. The bloodier the revolt, the better. Freedom fighters and terrorists were both gleefully celebrated by their body count. But sometimes, Crowley thought, in his dark reflective moments, even the bloodiest revolts didn't do more damage, all told, than a few comfortable leaders, happily blinded by prejudice and stupidity, could do to a whole nation, and call it the law.

"Well," Aziraphale said, "Remember Theodosius the first? And the crossing of the Rhine?"

Yes.

Centuries back and it was still clearly penned in his memory, since to an immortal the past was paper to be rolled out at a whim. They had been living in Rome then, and times were uneasy. Theodosius had been a ruler of the older sort, all religious persecution and executions. Still, after he went there had been talk in the streets, and what had been a sea was suddenly all current, the different rivers that made it up all remembering themselves, and hey, that stream over there came from the mountain with the goat that once fouled us up!

The Roman empire would never again be reunited, though Crowley didn't know that at the time. He just understood that it was the end of something. He remembered that Heaven had told Aziraphale to defeat the wiles of Hell by thoroughly slaughtering the vicious barbarians who threatened the outer walls, and Hell had told him that there was to be a great sack, and that blood would run through the streets like wine. Bad wine, probably, Crowley had thought. Not the sort you wanted to drink. But the orders were smudged in the mental paper of his mind. At some point during the second sack, he'd found Aziraphale trying to salvage an old library from the battle. The angel had let his wings unfurl in his distraction, and Crowley had miracled a quick invisibility over them. No one was paying them much attention in any case. He'd touched the angel's arm and said, softly, "Let's go."

It had been pre-Arrangement, when the unsaid things were still unsaid. The angel had turned around, firing blazing in his eyes. His whole being had flared with light, and even as Crowley had stepped back, he'd felt an answering fire kindling in his heart. Rome was falling, and no matter what side ultimately called it a victory, they were losing their home.

"But Scotland stayed," he said quickly.

Aziraphale was staring balefully at he paper. "Nonetheless," he said. "England is no longer the great power. I rather think it hasn't been for almost a century, what with the second world war and now all this fuss with the EU. We're no longer in the center - just on an island, with the fog rolling in all around. You know how it goes. When the center moves, so do we. And it is time to go. I'm certain," he finished, but with the air of one who is not in fact certain and is desperately hoping to be talked out of it.

The theory went like this. Heaven and Hell only had one active agent placed on earth each. Therefore, those agents needed to be in the tribe – country, now – where their wiling and thwarting would have the most impact. When they had been new to Earth, they'd switched tribes every cycle of the moon. Then their stays had gotten longer. England had been home now more than a couple of centuries.

Crowley slumped. "What about your bookshop?"

Now Aziraphale looked truly pained. "I suppose I'll put them in storage. A nice woman explained it to me. And those air-o-planes" (Aziraphale enunciated the word carefully, managing to find an extra syllable) "can fly my books overseas. And I understand," he continued, "that there are vessels capable of transporting your automobile."

"Not America," Crowley said quickly. "They don't understand tea. And I'd have to drive on the wrong side of the road."

"They are very religious," Aziraphale said doubtfully. He has never quite come to grips with religious fever. The ecstasy of God was all very well, but he sometimes wondered if they couldn't get on with it a tad more quietly, and with less shoving. To understand Aziraphale's view on the very religious was that when they came to his door, he would listen for ten minutes, unable to express that he was, in fact, about as committed to the Bible as any, then, spurred on by biblical inaccuracies in his would-be converter's speech, would sit them down in his shop and deliver a hour long impromptu lecture on biblical lore (sneaking in his favorite biblical misprints), and final, with a sudden cry of "My, my, look at the time" usher them out the door, then settle back down at his table, feeling gently self satisfied at having dealt with the situation so well.

Crowley didn't bother to open the door.

"Televangelists," Crowley scoffed. "That's like Metatron and Beezelbub combined. All this end of the world talk, like they want the world to come to an end."

He glanced out the window, and was surprised to see the weak sunlight painting the street gold. Somehow he always expected the sky to be gray or boiling red when they spoke of the day the world almost ended, but the universe, like a bad comedian, never had any sense of timing.

Aziraphale gave a restrained shudder. "Obviously they lack our sophisticated grasp of theology." Crowley translated that to, _ignoring the bits we don't like, and underlining the ones we do_. Personally, he had to disagree. Humans had figured out "sophisticated theology" long before Crowley and Aziraphale had figured out how to divinely ferment grapes.

Crowley glanced at the newspaper. "Well, maybe you're right, he said softly. "We've had a good run here. Time to move on."

When he looked up, Aziraphale had already masked the unhappy expression that had flashed across his own face.

"China's not a bad choice," Crowley said. He was trying to be chipper, but he didn't have much practice. "Good tea," he added.

"There's no point just tossing countries out willy-nilly," Aziraphale said. "It's not like it was back in the beginning, when we just followed the cattle tracks." A thought seemed to jerk him slightly from his gloom. "We'll have to read all the newspapers," he said. "And take notes. And map out our plan." Aziraphale _believed_ in maps. He especially liked the complicated ones that showed the world in three ways, none of which were helpful to the average motorist, and he tended to prefer old maps, which were hopelessly out of date. When they drove together, Aziraphale claimed to be the navigator*.

* In Crowley's mind the person the driver ignores so he doesn't get lost.

Absentmindedly, Crowley miracled his glass full again. "Let's get drunk," he said, but there was no relief in the idea. After a few glasses, Aziraphale began to aggressively fold and unfold the newspaper, so Crowley gave up and asked for the bill.

Perhaps the most outwardly visible sign of his rapidly down-spiraling mood was that he actually paid it.

.

.

Oliver paced moodily down the street. When he noticed a wrapper lying on the sidewalk, he walked past it. _Hah_ , he thought darkly. What was the point, even? No matter how much he picked up, people always just tossed more out again. What was the point? He'd only meant to helpful. He hadn't known that Sammy was allergic to daisies. He'd felt awfully bad, when her face has started to swell up. He'd offered to help, but she'd just said, "You can take your help." Then she'd slammed the door. She hadn't even told him where he could take it.

He paced on a few more feet, before his conscience caught up with him and gave him a polite tug on the sleeve. _Look,_ it said, _you've had a bad night. But that's no excuse to not pick up that wrapper. Remember how much harm litter does? If you don't pick it up, who will?_

It was strange. Ollie's conscience had never sounded quite so posh before. He headed back down the street, still slumped. Here he was, doing a Good Thing. Not that Sammy would care. She must be having a miserable night. And it was all his fault, too.

Sighing, he bent to pick up the wrapper. It was for a Snickers bar. _Typical_ , he thought. He wondered if Sammy was allergic to nuts. Somehow in all their shared meals it had never come up. As he stood back up, a poster caught his eye. It was lying on the ground, strangely uncreased and unsoiled. Strange, because most things lying on the London streets had a dirt-less expectancy of two minutes, tops. The header caught his eye.

 _Computers For Novices!_

 _If You Cannot Tell a Computer Key From a Piano Key, This Class Is For You!_

It continued in a new line of breathlessly punctuated excitement.

 _Low rates, Flexible hours! Personalized tutoring!_

 _Contact Mr. Fell:_

A phone number was listed at the bottom.

Ollie stared at the poster. It would show effort, wouldn't it? And maybe it would help. Slowly, he pocketed the poster and continued his trudge down the street with a little more cheer in his step.

Aziraphale watched him go. Well, that had worked. The first part was done. Now he only had to learn enough about computers to teach about them. It couldn't be hard, could it? Crowley knew all sorts of things about computers, and Aziraphale considered his intelligence at least equal to his demon. Anyway, computers were only really small encyclopedias when you got down to it. He'd just have to find the index.

.

.

Laura was used to hopeless people. When it came to IT, they were the requirement. After all, if everyone understood how things worked, there would be no advantage in being one of the (few) people who understood things better, and certainly no job. On the other hand, sometimes she really wondered what century these people thought they were living in. The man ( _gentlemen_ flowed irresistibly across her mind, in indecipherable cursive) was still having problems.

Laura had made a major breakthrough when she'd introduced him to the touch screen. Apparently this was close enough to how a book worked to pass muster. (Laura hadn't dared bring up Kindles. She had the shirking suspicion he'd consider them blasphemy). There had been another good moment when she'd explain that actually, computers all worked from words, when you came right down to it. She'd pertinently left out the fact that at the real bottom of it, the words were just numbers, and then relays.

"So I write my question on the line?" he asked.

"Type," Laura said, the word coming out like an instinctual spasm. "Yes. Though it doesn't need to be phrased as a question. All that matter are the key words. The search terms."

Mr. Fell considered this like a teacher who, after teaching the same problem for thirty years, had just been informed that an alternate method existed. Plainly, he was dubious. "If I don't phrase my inquiry as a question," he said, "Pardon me, Miss Singh, how will it know that I am asking a question?"

"It won't _know_ -" Laura began. "Just - just type your question, okay?"

He did so. _Where might I find a copy of the Cod* bible, good condition?_

* "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your cod and your staff, they comfort me." This error nearly gave rise to a new religious faction, much to the delight of the nearby sailors, who, of course, sold the fish.

"Excuse me," Mr. Fell said, breaking a blissful thirty seconds of silence. "What is this?"

She looked over his shoulder.

"It hasn't answered my question," Mr. Fell said, with a kind of contrite triumph, as if he were saying, _I knew it wouldn't, but wiser minds than mine, I am sure, told me to try it - but they were wrong._

"There may not be anything about the Cod bible on the Internet," she said slowly.

"You mean it doesn't know?"

"It doesn't _know_ anything. It only looks for the same words as you used."

"It says "code" everywhere. I said cod. Perhaps it can't spell."

"The correlation between cod and bible is extremely low -" Laura caught herself. "I mean," she said, with exaggerated care, "it thinks you're much more likely to have meant bible code than cod bible."

"So it can think?" Mr. Fell asked, seizing onto this familiar language.

"No!" Laura said. "Look, just try something else, will you? Something less -" she tried to figure out what word described a cod bible, and tactfully chose to speak the seventh* which occurred to her " - obscure."

* in order: random, weird, ridiculous, pathetic, bizarre, eccentric

When she came back from helping a teenager looking for a 3DS, she found him deeply engrossed in a forum thread called the Cod Bible.

Aziraphale came to the end of the, well, page. He had to call it a page. It reminded him of scrolls. Those had been good days, back when there had been scrolls. The Cod Bible had not, in fact, discussed the holy word. It had been more concerned with fish (which could be almost holy, he supposed, in small quantities and with proper seasoning).

Now, what was at the bottom here . . .

– **In order to verify that you are a human** – well, well, these computer chaps were sharper than he had thought. Hah! Didn't know where the Cod bible was, but knew he was a supernatural being.

Aziraphale squinted at the screen in suspicion.

.

.

The silence was getting longer. Sammy began to count out the seconds in her mind, like some morbid death knell. She didn't know what to say, and she knew exactly what Ollie was going to say. He'd begin saying it any second now. It would start with a general comment on the weather and develop into a free floating contemplation of the harm of pollution or maybe that rhino in Africa that was going extinct. It wasn't that she didn't care about the rhino. But she was getting very tired of hearing about it, and also the way Ollie would tug at his left pointer finger as he spoke.

"I've signed up for some lessons," Ollie said. "Computer lessons, sort of thing. I thought they might . . ." he shrugged, "help."

"Oh," Sammy said. He was trying. That should have given her a warm and fuzzy feeling inside, but she just felt empty. If anything, she felt a mild chill. She'd left the front window open, probably. She had really ought to close it. "That's really great Ollie," she said. She stared at her computer screen, the code blurring. He was trying, and she would really be too horrible if she didn't try as well. "So, do you want to go to the zoo tomorrow? I'm free after 4:00."

The zoo was his favorite place to go. They'd had their third date there, kissing beside the giraffe pen. He'd said that her neck was almost as long as the giraffe's and she'd laughed and told him not to try poetry.

Olly's face lit up.

Shortly after, they said their goodbyes. Sammy stayed up very late that night, reinfusing her last teabag so many times that she ended up drinking hot water. She shivered.

 _Bloody chill._ She never had closed the window.

.

.

The door bell tinged.

"We'll make a road trip of it," Crowley called from somewhere within the shop. His voice was strung with cheeriness like plastic holiday lights.

"Of what?" Aziraphale said, carefully climbing down his stepladder.

"You know. Finding our new home."

Home. It was the wrong word, but suddenly Crowley couldn't think of one that fit better. A territory, a stomping ground, a battlefield? No, this was the place they lived and breathed. There wasn't another word.

Aziraphale hadn't appeared to have noticed his sudden trepidation. In fact, now that Crowley thought of it, Aziraphale hadn't been noticing much lately. He was quiet, very quiet. He replied when spoken to, and if Crowley had only known him decades, instead of centuries, he might have noticed nothing, but the change was there. Aziraphale was closed off, as if withdrawing into himself. Crowley wondered if these strange years following the almost-apocalypse were to remain an anomaly. Maybe this move signaled to Aziraphale a shift back to their old partnership – greater distance, less trust.

Crowley hoped not. But he couldn't find the words to ask Aziraphale what was the matter with him. He might have found those words had they gotten drunk together, but recently Aziraphale hadn't seemed inclined to stay on for second drinks. Crowley tried not to think too much on that.

"Of course," Aziraphale said, snapping Crowley from his thoughts. "I've found some maps."

"Angel," Crowley replied, seized by sudden fondness, "we don't need those old maps. My iphone has a GPS.

Aziraphale sniffed. "We can use your You-Phone," he said distrustfully, "but I'll bring my maps all the same, if you don't mind."

Crowley snickered and shook his head as Aziraphale went off to collect his maps. It would be nice to drive together, he thought. Maybe Aziraphale would finally tell him what was wrong.

Mr Fell was strange, but Ollie couldn't help liking him. He reminded Ollie of a distant uncle, who always had a smile on his face and a sweet to dig out from his bottomless pocket. The sweets tended to be boiled and seemed designed to break the teeth of any unwitting taster, and Ollie had spat out the first one after a few seconds and afterwards pawned the rest into the garbage, but he'd appreciated the thought all the same.

Ollie sometimes wondered if Mr. Fell knew anything about computers. On their first lesson he'd delivered a lecture about finding the power button, which even Ollie knew about. By lesson four, they'd managed to log in, and had figured out how to open the Internet*.

* "Today I will tell you about the Internet." Mr. Fell made the word sound like a caged beast. "The Internet is a way that computers that are far away from each other talk. It is like the divine chorus that connects all the angels of Heaven. Though, um, certain angels sometimes have a bad connection. The highest ranking emissary of the Internet is the Google. He is like the Metatron. The Google can be asked to find information, and it will talk to all the other computers and tell you. Unlike the Metatron, the Google is helpful."

In fact, Ollie at times suspected he was the one teaching Mr. Fell. But the lessons were incredibly cheap, and Mr. Fell was an affable and interesting man. They spent about half an hour on the computer. Then a cuckoo clock would chirp and Mr. Fell would straighten with relief. "That'll be the time, then, my dear. But of course, you're welcome to stay on for tea." Mr Fell prepared a mean cocoa, and in a dusty cupboard he kept every variety of tea. Jam cookies were fished from unlikely places, scones and cakes materialized as if from thin air, and the whole kitchen took on a rosy and comfortable glow. Mr. Fell was incredibly easy to talk with. It was like he knew all the thoughts in Ollie's head, and was patiently waiting for Ollie to say them.

Ollie sighed as he bit into a glazed lemon scone. It had been a long, frustrating day. Ollie worked at the environmental agency. His work mostly consisted of summarizing studies in long reports which he suspected that no one read. The suspicion had become practically certainty since in all the years he'd worked there, he'd never heard a single politician reference one of his studies. And he'd checked, too.

Ollie had a tendency to record stories on the news so that he could play them back when he wanted to make a point. This possibly said more about him than he meant it to.

Across the table, Mr. Fell was enjoying his cocoa. The light cast his face in shadow, and despite the faint smile on the man's face, Ollie suddenly saw him as old and tired. The light brought every wrinkle into sharp relief. There were laugh lines, but also frowns. Ollie's gaze was drawn down to the hands which which Mr. Fell grasped the cup. There was no ring. In all the bookshop, and what Ollie had seen of Mr. Fells' residence, there were no photos. If Mr. Fell was anything like his uncle, he should have had photos, many of them, carefully framed, placed out of the sun light*.

* Not that much sunlight found its way into the store in any case – sunlight couldn't managed against the industrial grade curtains Aziraphale had set out like siege walls and regularly checked like a general overseeing the defenses

"Are you married?" Ollie said, and then regretted the clumsiness of the question.

Mr. Fell, who had been staring off dreamily, snapped to attention. "Married? My goodness, no."

Ollie nodded awkwardly. "Is there anyone, you know, special?"

The questions seemed to strike a chord with Mr. Fell. He said nothing, blinking, his gaze far away. Then he smiled. "Very special," he said.

That cheered Ollie up. It wasn't right for a man as nice as Mr Fell to be all alone with his books. Ollie was sure they made him happy, but, well, to face the facts, a man like Mr Fell must be very lonely to give lessons on a subject he barely knew, and that he hardly was payed for. (With all the food and drink Mr. Fell gave him, Ollie suspected he was losing money, all things told). Maybe he just wanted someone to share cocoa and stories with.

"I think that's wonderful," Ollie said. He didn't look up to see Mr. Fell's smile dim.

.

.

Crowley assimilated. It was a snake thing. Learning a culture could be just like changing his skin, though he had stopped doing that early on. It wasn't dignified, leaving bits of yourself everywhere. Aziraphale still had a slip of his skin from the early days. Crowley had put a great deal of effort into stealing it back, until a few decades following the agreement, when the idea that Aziraphale had kept a piece of him with angelic persistence seemed not disturbing but oddly comforting. The point was that lingo, mannerisms and tone came to him without much effort.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was a foreigner, but indubitably and blatantly so. He was so obviously out of place that strangers were seized with an urge to give him directions, point out the nicest restaurants to him, and warn him which allies not to walk down. He received this attention with a happy gratitude that left his helpers with the warm afterglow of helping that hopeless foreigner. It did take some frantic miracling on Crowley's behalf to stop them from wondering why a stranger spoke such perfect Russian.

They were assured by ebullient native they met that visiting Patriarshy Prudiy was essential to understanding Russia' character. The spot was a pond, dappled with green light. They stood awkwardly by the railing as other tourists snapped pictures and chatted.

"There should be ducks," Crowley said.

Aziraphale gave a small huff of agreement.

The sense of dislocation was suddenly overpowering. They were standing by a pond, but it was not their pond. Not that ponds were very different, as things went. Oh, there was size and depth, the geometry of it, and there was the aesthetic – the way the light reflected off the surface or skipped a gentle shimmer across the water, and there was of course the biology – the flora and fauna. But all ponds were, when you got right down to it, small standing pools of water. _But different_ , Crowley thought, _nevertheless_.

Besides him, Aziraphale shivered. "It's getting chilly," he said. "Let's find somewhere warm."

They adjourned to Cafe Pushkin, and the host was very surprised to find that they did in fact have reservations.

Aziraphale enjoyed the antique decoration and the excellent service, though neither he nor Crowley took advantage of the Vodka selection. The point of alcohol wasn't really to get drunk, in Crowley's opinion. And beyond getting drunk, Vodka had little point.

As they walked outside, Crowley thought, it's almost like home. He knew they could never choose to move here. If they came they would only walk by that pond and remember feeding the ducks in St. James' park.

.

.

Panjiayuan Market was crowded and noisy with people and colors. Crowley, who liked mail-order catalogues and more recently, online shopping, felt slightly overwhelmed, but Aziraphale was plainly in his element. He took to negotiating like an amphibian creature first discovering the ocean. When Aziraphale named his first counter-price, it was so wildly below the given price that Crowley thought the seller would start to laugh, but she hadn't. Instead, she'd grinned and named another price, marginally lower. Aziraphale seemed to consider this, before he spoke again.

Aziraphale took his time. That was what Crowley noticed. He first carefully surveyed all the merchandise. He'd paused at a statue, a necklace, a bit of jade, an elegant tea-set, and ask the price. Given it, he would frown and shake his head from side to side. His big leather wallet was produced from murky pockets and leafed through with hopeless fingers. He sighed and told the vender that the price was really much too high, and then named a lower one. Rebuffed, he sighed again at the still apparently too high price.

He wandered off for a few minutes, still in sight, peering at other stalls. Then he returned and in a confidential voice told the seller that he had seen the same item at a different stall, much more reasonably priced, but without the same sheen, you know, that this one had. If he could only pay that price, Aziraphale hinted, then there would be a sale.

Some venders gave in there. Others were more hardy. A lengthy conversation ensued, Aziraphale's clunky calculator was produced, and somehow the names of the seller's children were introduced into the conversation. One seller implied that Aziraphale's price would leave them hungry. Aziaphale recommended he buy at a stall further up the street, the one with the aforesaid reasonable prices. If only sellers stopped overcharging their merchandise, Aziraphale seemed to lament, then all the ills of the world would be resolved.

By this point half an hour had grinded by. Crowley, exhausted and confused, retired to an out of the way bench, sipping boba he'd bought at full price. Crowley hadn't quite seen the point of negotiating. He could afford the prices, so why not just save himself the hassle and pay them? He fancied the sellers were shaking their heads in pity as the sale concluded.

Ten minutes later, Aziraphale emerged from the mass of people, triumphant. His sweater was somewhat ruffled, as if it had been grabbed, but Aziraphale looked like nothing less than a victorious legionary fresh from a divine war. The hideous statue of a Buddha he bought somewhat diminished the image. As Aziraphale enthusiastically gave him the blow-by-blow of the negotiation, as well as the price he'd ultimately paid, Crowley was inclined to feel, that despite the tremendous bargain, the price was still too high.

By the end of the day, Aziraphale had amassed half a roomful of miscellaneous , after contemplating a stuffed peacock, had almost nothing.

"Where are you planning on putting all that?" Crowley sniped. "Your bookshop is too full of books as it is."

"I could buy a bigger shop," Aziraphale said.

"You could," Crowley agreed, wishing it didn't feel like a concession. He glared at the junk Aziraphale had bought. Just for a moment, he wished he could set it on fire.

.

.

Crowley and Aziraphale stopped off at a McDonald's which a grinning woman in Mississippi had assured them was a necessary American experience. It had only taken them a whiff to table the idea of actually eating the food they were served. Aziraphale looked at the burgers and fries very sternly, until they gave in from sheer shame and became a simple chicken salad.

"Well," said Aziraphale, "certainly not here."

"Oh I don't know," Crowley said slowly.

"Here?" Aziraphale faced him with horrified expression. "But you said it yourself! The tea!"

"I can always import," he said, adding, "The coffee's not bad*"

* Crowley had quickly taken to coffee shops. He especially delighted in making his orders as long and complex as possible. I'd like a grande, single shot, four pumps, sugar free, pumpkin, nonfat, extra hot, no foam, light, whip stirred, white mocha with caramel drizzle, an extra pump of vanilla, double-cupped, and, _please_ , keep the change.

"But the citizenry!"

"Land of the free," Crowley said, grinning. "They play the anthem for their president and curse him whenever they can."

"It is odd," Aziraphale agreed. "Their politicians don't debate. Astonishing, really. I don't believe some of them know how to string a sentence together."

"They have no incentive," Crowley said. In his mind, politicians were much like high school students: they only did work if they knew it would be graded and they always had a second bad excuse. "Ours aren't much better."

Aziraphale nodded. He didn't follow politics, being of the school of thought that all politicians were Hell-bound anyway. He considered anyone who thought they could rule London inherently untrustworthy, and the last time he'd voted had only been because an eager young person had shamed him into it. Privately, Aziraphale thought it would all work better if they let the queen run things again. She seemed like a very sensible sort of person, the kind he would not mind sharing a cup of cocoa with.

Crowley leaned forward. "Look, from a market perspective, there is so much I could do here. Mindless TV? I'm just an amateur, I see that now. When it comes to plot-less, brainless melodrama, I've got nothing on what they're doing here. And gluttony isn't really my field, but I've already got ideas just sitting here."

"The people are very American," Aziraphale said finally.

 _Oh, and we're British?_ Crowley thought, _I thought we were citizens of Earth and that nationhood meant nothing since it'll all be the same come the End – only it didn't come. Does that leave us British?_ The question tickled at him for the rest of the trip. Aziraphale was looking at this place like a Brit on vacation might, but that was Aziraphale, and stubbornness and probably meant nothing. _If you're British_ , Crowley thought with sudden vehemence, as a number of customers were surprised to bite into sudden veggie-burgers, _then why'd you suggest we leave?_

 _._

 _._

When they got back to London, the first thing they did was get lunch. The owner greeted them personally and made known that she'd missed them last Friday. Aziraphale assured her that special circumstances had intervened and that the restaurant still sold unsurpassed pasta. The meal went mostly in silence. At last, Crowley said, "Well?"

"I liked China," Aziraphale said, carefully twirling his spaghetti. "For one thing, people are polite."

"America would be my pick," Crowley said.

Aziraphale frowned. "You can't possibly like it there."

"And what," Crowley said, "you love China?"

Aziraphale fell silent.

You don't, Crowley thought, you don't like any place more than here now, because here is where we live. Vacations are one thing, trips are another. I can't believe Tattoo Nightmare is a real show, you like that you can haggle with every person you buy from. But the important thing about vacations and trips is that they are temporary. You always know where you're going back to.

Crowley geared himself up. "Well, it's the global age."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, there's no need, per say,for us to be in the same country." He hoped that Aziraphale would argue. They didn't need to be in the same country, technically, but the idea was still absurd. They hadn't stuck together since the beginning because they were forced to, but because it was simpler, easier, and maybe, just maybe, because they'd liked to. Aziraphale should say the idea was too silly to contemplate, but as the seconds ticked on, Crowley realized with a certainty like a weight in his chest that Aziraphale would do nothing of the kind.

"No need," Aziraphale repeated. "Ah." He made a show of fishing out an antiquated watch. "Excuse me, I have an appointment,"

"An appointment?" Crowley said, puzzled, and more loudly than he normally would. "Since when have you ever-" but Aziraphale was already walking away.

Crowley slumped in his chair. Passing by, the owner shot him a sympathetic look. Privately she thought, Lover's quarrels are all very well, but there's no need to waste good food!

.

.

"Lady trouble?" Aziraphale said wisely. Oliver had spent the lesson eying the screen as if it had personally defrauded him.

"Well, yes," Oliver said. "She's great. She's just great. Only," he waved a frantic hand, "we don't fit anymore. It was so easy when we first met. Talking with her, just being with her. It was like floating." He grimaced. "Now it's like drowning."

"All couples have their little difficulties," Aziraphale said. "Have you tried-" Aziraphale fished through his century old mind for romantic gestures "giving her flowers?"

"She's allergic," Oliver said morosely.

Aziraphale risked a gentle pat on his arm.

The day was wet. Rain had blackmailed the clouds into hanging low and gray, but the threat had no follow up. Occasionally a light trickle would begin, lasting only long enough for people to unfold their umbrellas. Crowley and Aziraphale were walking, wrapped in silence, and hardly aware of the dampness collecting on their clothing.

Politics has been the topic of the morning. Crowley had said that when you thought about it, the whole divine system was massive bureaucracy topped by a dictator – an enlightened despot, to be sure – which Aziraphale had found hard to argue with (particularly the bureaucracy bit), but he'd made the effort, more half-heartedly than usual. Political scientists traditionally drew a line between authoritarian and democratic rule, and centralized and decentralized systems. Heaven and Hell, for all their differences, hadn't quite understood the idea of letting the people at the bottom have any influence. They were at the bottom for a reason, right?

Crowley had drawn up a memo on democracy following World War II and sent it in. A few decades later, Aziraphale had done the same. The response had been uniform – the practice might lead to dangerous ideas. Crowley had given follow up with his findings on elections in America – he had been surprised to realize that people routinely voted against their own interests and would take great offense if you pointed it out. He could probably do good* things in America.

*Bad.

Crowley sighed.

As they walked past a flower shop, a bouquet of flowers wilted. "Crowley!" Aziraphale said sharply.

Crowley looked at him in confusion. Then comprehension dawned. "What? Oh, that. It's just habit, you know."

"Fix them."

"You do it," said Crowley, who was in a contrary mood.

"Well." Aziraphale appeared indecisive. Then he walked abruptly over to flower seller. "Excuse me, I would like to buy some flowers," he said. "Those ones," he added, pointing at the wilted flowers, before the salesperson could move. The salesman, short and bald with a spiffy black hat, followed his finger to the badly wilted saleman shrugged. It was a funny old world. You never could account for people's tastes. There would always be someone who asked for wilted flowers.

"And what are you going to do with a bouquet of daffodils, Angel?" Crowley said acerbically as they walked away.

Aziraphale eyed the flowers in his hands warily. "I don't know. Flowers aren't my specialty. Can't be trusted near books. You could take them," he said, like an afterthought.

Crowley regarded the bunch of flowers. He took one of them by the stem, twirling it contemplatively. "You know, in language of flowers, a daffodil stands for unrequited love."

"Really? How interesting," Aziraphale said.

"Uh huh. Of course, a bouquet of wilted flowers traditionally means rejected love."

"How do you get to know things like that?" Aziraphale asked.

"Oh well, I pick up this and that from gardening shows."

They walked on.

"Just don't give anyone orange lilies," Crowley said cheerfully.

"What do they mean?"

"Hatred."

"Oh my."

"And stay away from red roses, too," said Crowley, who was on a roll now.

"I think I know that one," Aziraphale said. "Physical love, correct?" He continued, speaking the word like he had the word wrapped up in handkerchief, "Lust?"

Crowley smirked.

"That is more your province than mine, anyway," Aziraphale added.

For some reason, it hurt.

It was like if you did tech and didn't worry much about your cloths - the jokes about getting outside and mountain dew suggested themselves, and fine, fair enough, but when the joke came from the person who knew you best then they became stale. That person ought to know you better than that.

The stereotypes were easy and with them conversation followed grooves worn down by centuries of dogma and lore, but after the apocalypse that wasn't – well, there had been a change. They met more frequently, they had mostly stopped pretending that they had any stake in heaven or hell's plans, but the fact was it hadn't changed as much as Crowley would have liked.

Crowley blinked. Behind them, the discarded flowers perked up into bright yellow.

.

.

"Have you ever said something just so someone would disagree with it?" Ollie said. He didn't wait for Mr. Fell's almost fervent nod to continue. "I mean, said something that of course they'd contradict, right? Only they didn't. And then. And then. Well, it's just rotten."

"I told Sam that maybe it would be better if we took a break from seeing each other for a while," Ollie continued. "And she just nodded! As if that made sense, and said maybe I was right. Then she closed her laptop and actually looked at me for the first time that night. Half the time we're talking she doesn't look at me, and I wish she would, because she has beautiful eyes. They're gray, like the feathers of a morning dove. Or something. She said maybe I was right and walked me outside. It was a nasty night," he finished gloomily. "I'm sorry for going on, Mr. Fell."

"Don't be sorry, my dear boy," said Mr Fell automatically. "I don't suppose you could tell her you didn't mean it?"

"That would just make me seem pathetic," Olli said. He fell into his thoughts for a minute before speaking again, and when he did speak, it was in a softer, more reflective tone. "And maybe, after all, I was right."

"What do you mean?" Mr. Fell said sharply.

"I mean," Ollie said, still working it out himself, "I mean, Sammy has beautiful eyes. But I hardly see them, because we never look at each other anymore. And we don't talk, not like we used to. Maybe the best thing really is for us to spend some time not being together. Maybe it will help us. Or maybe, well. Maybe it's time for us to move on."

"Don't say that!" The passion in Mr. Fell's voice surprised Ollie and warmed him. He'd found a good friend in this eccentric bookseller. "You really shouldn't give up hope," Mr. Fell continued earnestly. "Just, just trust in Providence, my dear."

Ollie laughed, but quietly, so as not to offend. "Alright, Mr. Fell," he said. "I won't despair just yet."

Sammy was done. She was done. So she had no idea why she was standing up and marching herself to Ollie's door on her stiff reluctant legs. _Better apologize, tomorrow it won't seem so bad, and you'll feel very foolish to have made a fuss over nothing_ , she thought. It didn't really sound like the way she thought, but the words came from her head.

"I'm sorry," she said, at the same time Ollie mumbled, "I'm sorry." They eyed each other warily.

"How about we get dinner tomorrow?" Sammy said. She wasn't sure why. Dinners had become utter fiascos recently. They never had anything to say and couldn't agree on anything except the wine selection.

"I'd like that," Ollie said. He smiled a smile that lingered too long on his face, like a guest who knows he isn't wanted, but whose hosts are too polite to make leave.

Crowley was washing the Bently. He would be troubled to explain why if Hell had rung up and asked. The car didn't need washing. Crowley had kept it spotlessly clean since the day he had acquired it, bar one instance of spontaneous combustion. Cars that got too close found their engines stalling. Birds, flying overhead and about to relieve themselves, were gripped with sudden constipation. Car thieves began to contemplate the merits of middle management.

Crowley took a step back to appraise his work. He'd donned the requisite old clothing for the job, but since Crowley had never quite figured out the concept of clothes wearing out or even casual clothes, he wore a pristinely ironed white button-up and simple black slacks. The car gleamed in the weak sunlight, a soapy, sudsy mess. Whistling a tune, Crowley began to dry the car. The rag (a particularly garish sweater Aziraphale had given him) swiped back and forth.

It was a Tuesday. Tuesday meant tea-time with the angel at the Ritz.

Cleaning the Bently was unnecessary, but it had given Crowley a chance to think. The simple motion of the rag in his hands gave him a clarity even a cellar full of alcohol and a dunk in the Arctic couldn't. There were a few things he had to say to the angel, and he was going to say them.

And then, well. Tea-time would end and the world would keep turning, but at least he would know where they stood.

Crowley squeezed out the sweater. Water soaked into the pavement and was taken up by the sky.

.

.

Sammy and Oliver were sitting in a teashop. Neither of them were quite sure how they'd gotten there. Some sort of free tea-time, a promotional invite. The place was very pink and felt stuffy, like the air had been used too many times. The dining ware was shaped into hearts. Sammy nibbled at a cucumber sandwich, while Oliver applied cream to his scone. The air was charged with anticipation, but it didn't belong to them. The feeling was strange. It was perhaps what a butterfly would feel, pinned beneath a display case and aware of the eyes looking in.

"I got a job offer," Sammy said, not looking up. "In Manchester."

"Oh. Good job?"

"No," Sammy said. "Actually, it's pretty typical, but it's a job, and more reliable than the free-lance work I'm doing here. I'd like to take it."

Oliver nodded. "I was thinking about going to Africa and saving my Rhino," he volunteered.

Sammy put down her sandwich and looked at him, her mouth tugging into a slight frown. "Would you really?"

"Probably not," Oliver said dispiritedly.

The silence hung like a curtain. Sammy burst through it like an actor before her time was called, her words piling out over some invisible roadblock. "Do you ever feel like the universe wants you to kiss and for there to be birds singing and bells ringing?"

"Yes!" Ollie said, his eyes charged and bright with desperation.

They stared at each other. "It's sort of uncomfortable," Sammy said

"Yeah."

Sammy fiddled with the heart-shaped spoon. "You know, Ollie," she said, "I do think you're pretty amazing. Just not, you know, perfectly amazing for me."

Ollie picked up his fork and set it down. "Same," he said quietly.

"So," Sammy said, placing her napkin on the table, "this is it, then?"

"I guess so." Oliver looked around the restaurant, but didn't stand. He wanted to. Sammy was great – but they didn't fit together anymore.

Sammy had stood. She looked almost confused. "Well, bye," she said.

Ollie stood too. "Good bye," he said firmly, and started to walk away. He didn't feel wrecked like he had thought he would feel. In fact, he felt almost relieved. He and Sammy has been uncomfortable for so long, with the fights and the non-fights that were just as bad. He felt freer, now, and –

 _NO._

They froze.

The air around them calcified with divinity. Ollie and Sammy stood in place, their limbs suddenly locked as time stilled. Someone took a deep and altogether unnecessary breath. "Now," he said to himself, "to put this right."

"Angel!"

Aziraphale whirled around, and then smoothed down the front of his jumper to hide his surprise. "Crowley," he said. "What are you doing here?"

Crowley tapped his watch lazily. "It's teatime and it's Tuesday. You didn't show. I missed you at the Ritz."

"I was working," Aziraphale said slowly.

Crowley strolled further into the teashop. He picked up an unattended stone and sniffed it. Then he idly helped himself to a jar of gooseberry jam. Still looking at the scone he said, "Those kids. The ones standing by the table. I can almost taste you on them, the aura's so strong. Angel, what are you doing?"

"I told you," Aziraphale said stiffly. "Working."

"More like meddling," Crowley said. He finally looked up. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but his face was somber "How much help do two souls need?"

"They're a couple. A lovely couple, and they're on the verge of a horrible mistake. I'm trying to keep them together. They are -" he frowned, "being stubborn about it."

Crowley shook his head. "Cut your losses. What does one couple matter?"

Aziraphale's voice sliced through the air like the sudden plummet of an icicle. "It matters."

Crowley's eyes narrowed in response. "Hey, I recognize those two. Hold on, I know this. They, they come to our place – that little cafe – yeah – order the same drinks as us, too. You know, I always thought that was a bit funny. Because, look, he's a hopeless do-gooder, and she's got a great car. They remind me a bit of you and – "

Crowley stopped. Looked at Aziraphale.

Softly, he said, "You couldn't possibly be such a bastard."

"Excuse me?"

Crowley spoke quickly. "You're pushing them together like ants on a table – walls up in every direction they try to flee. People aren't ants. You can't do that to them."

"We do it all the time."

"Because of the job."

"Well, that's why we're here, isn't it," Aziraphale said stiffly. Something roaring crackled underneath. "The job."

Crowley shot forward. "Aziraphale, look at me. Are you looking?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "It's a very nice scone."

"What? Oh." Crowley put the scone down. "Oh, not at that. I mean, at me. You've been off for the last few weeks. When I talk you hum, and when you look at me your eyes float off."

"I've had a lot on my mind."

"You've been off ever since you mentioned Scotland. And us leaving home."

"Home," Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley shifted, sudden uncomfortable. "Yes, home. I don't know a better word. The office? The battlefield? This is where we live, not just where we work. And this hasn't been a battle. Not for a very long time."

"The Arrangement," Aziraphale said. His enunciation was firm. He was still looking away. "And it has been a good one, I think."

"Aziraphale," said Crowley. " _Let them go_."

The angel wavered. He moved his hand, as if to brush off a speck of dust, and suddenly the two living statues animated. They blinked at each other, and then began the walk towards the door. They didn't notice Crowley or Aziraphale. They had become very hard to see.

Aziraphale watched them go, something very much like regret still heavy on his face.

"They aren't an analogy," Crowley said. He spoke carefully, as if he were building a bridge across a deep gulf out of toothpicks. "They're not a metaphor. They're just people who would be better apart. They aren't us."

Aziraphale blinked slowly, as if coming into a bright light. "Well, I wish them all happiness," he said primly.

Crowley's gaze softened, but his tone was sharp. "What, Angel, would you have forced them together just to keep a metaphor? Ruined their lives for that?"

"I don't see why you're asking when you know the answer," Aziraphale said, testily, and not his hands, but his grace was trembling.

Crowley's eyes widened behind his sunglasses.

"No," he said slowly, "I didn't know that. Sometimes I don't think I know anything about you, even though I've had the lifetime of the human race to figure it out. You were the one who said we ought to leave."

Aziraphale plucked at his jumper. "I thought," he said quietly, "that you would argue."

"Oh."

The sounds of the teashop reemerged. The table in the back was empty, and a waitress was clearing away the two almost untouched plates.

Crowley snapped his fingers. The waitress blinked. _What was she doing? This table was reserved for 4:00, those two nice gentlemen._ She set the plates back down. _Of course, one of the one had an insatiable appetite for lemon curd. She had better get some for him_.

"Shall we?" Crowley said.

They sat in silence, and for the next few minutes the application of butter, cream and jam took preeminence.

"I thought you meant it," Crowley said finally. "You've always been the one to put the job first, I thought you meant it. The world could have ended and it didn't, and we told Heaven and Hell where they could put it, but I thought, well, at the end of the day, what's changed? It's always been the job between us, even if now it keeps us together where before it kept us apart. I keep calling London home because I don't know a better word. I don't know the right word for us. Who are we, if we're not what we are. Demon and angel."

"Friends," Aziraphale said. "More."

Very carefully, he put down a scone heavy with lemon curd. And, though no but Crowley could see it in the crowded shop, he reached out with his wings.

"Bugger America," Crowley said firmly. He hesitated. "China?"

"Damn China," Aziraphale said, his voice high and over-excited, his words spilling out.

The silence settled like a trumpeter swam who had at long last found the perfect nesting site.

"So we'll stay," Crowley said, tasting the words. "Here in London? My flat and your . . . _property_ that would horrify any respectable real-estate agent?"

"We don't have to stay in London forever," Aziraphale said, sounding thoughtful.. "We could find a quieter place, in time. I heard about a village, South Downs, which sounded quite lovely."

Crowley leaned forward, so that his sunglasses slipped down his noses, revealing dancing yellow eyes. "Tempt me, Angel," he said.

Aziraphale _laughed_.

.

.

Sammy shook her head as she left the tea shop. She wasn't sure what had come over her for a moment there. She'd felt a voice locking her in place. But just as suddenly, the pressure had lifted. As it had, she'd felt something touch her shoulder.

Sammy smiled at her own fancy.

It had almost felt like the brush of an angel's wing.


End file.
